I picked up the gun. "Come across! Who hired you."
"The —— Detective Agency," he stuttered.
He named one of the largest Agencies in town. Of course, I didn't know but what he was lying, but I meant to find out before I let him go. I turned a threatening scowl on him, and let my hand stray towards the gun again.
"I want the truth," I said.
He watched my hand like one hypnotised. Little drops of sweat broke out on his forehead. "For God's sake, Mister—!" he chattered. "For God's sake—! I'm telling you the truth. I'm only a poor operative. I don't know who wants to get you!"
"You'll have to prove it," I said.
"Call up the Agency," he stuttered. "They're open all night. My name is Atterbury. I'm number 68."
The instrument was at my hand. I got the number, and was presently answered by a brash young voice demanding to know what I wanted.
"This is B. Enderby," I said, "of number — West 40th Street. Have you got an operative working for you named Atterbury, number 68 on your books?"
"I don't know you," returned the voice. "We don't give any information over the phone. Call around and let us look you over." He hung up.